


Midnight Rides

by Maplesyrup



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belle - Freeform, Cadillac, F/M, Hands, Mr. Gold - Freeform, Once Upon a Time (TV) References, Rumbelle - Freeform, Smut, Some angst, The Caddy is almost it's own character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:37:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6738472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maplesyrup/pseuds/Maplesyrup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle seeks comfort from Mr. Gold, always at midnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me known what you think! It's a departure from my normal style, I think. Trying something new to see how much angst I can write without wanting to die :P

Sometimes she calls Gold at midnight, after her father and she have a row and she discovers she can't sleep. She never worries about Moe asking after the late night phone calls; she pays the bills and that includes the cell phones. And he's always blacked out from drinking by that time anyway.

Gold always comes to get her when she calls, his classic Cadillac purring into her driveway and idling, waiting to swallow her, the demonic black even more intimidating in the dead of night.

Belle loves that car.

 

\--

 

She walks out her front door into the bitter cold of midwinter, a flimsy jacket her only guard against it, save for her clothes. She wears a dress better suited to spring, but it also better suits her purpose on these nights.

With him, she's not the bookish librarian, or the ungrateful daughter of the towns rival for biggest drunk, or a prudish bitch no one would look at twice. With him, she's warm, and alive, and sexy, and, god, does she need to feel sexy on these nights. To feel her blood pumping, chasing away the cold biting at her skin and the sad and bitter life she leads against her highest wishes.

She opens the heavy passenger door and lowers herself down onto the warm leather seat and is silent as he puts the car in gear and drives away from her sad little house.

They never leave town when they go on these night rides because there's no one around to worry about seeing them. And even if there were, he owns most of the town, and could press that advantage enough to keep someone from opening their big mouth and spreading rumors, even though they wouldn't be rumors at all.

So she lets him drive, lets him pick where they go tonight, and she stares out the window, wanting desperately to cry, to unburden her soul. She wants him to hold her and pet her and take her back to his large, warm house and tell her she can stay with him, that he loves her, adores her and can't bear this unhappiness, this melancholy life she leads.

But she stays silent, doubting he'd want her in any other way than he has her. It's a reverse of that famous line from _The Great Gatsby:_ 'rich girls don't marry poor boys.' Well, rich men don't want poor little broken girls cluttering up their life with their problems and their drunken fathers and their tears.

He pulls the car up to the entrance of the cemetery, and parks. Neither of them speak, though she wishes he'd just pull her into his lap and let her cry those tears that would just clutter his life and stain his impeccable suit.

Instead, she keeps staring out the window, straight ahead, until she hears what seems like a sigh from Gold and then his hand is on her knee, sliding higher up the inside of her leg until he reaches that soft spot where her thigh meets her body and he just leaves his hand there, big and so warm, until she squirms, rising desire pushing away her despondency over her life.

His hand slips closer, touching her through the thing fabric of her serviceable panties, nothing even close to lingerie as much as she wishes they were. She can't afford it and white cotton is probably not what he's used to in the other women he no doubt fucks properly, in big beds with luxurious sheets, set in some foreign city.

But who cares. He's with her, here and now, and it's cold outside but their combined warmth is causing the windows to steam, and his fingers are working patterns across the cotton and her flesh and she's gasping lightly as his clever digits slide underneath the fabric and find her.

He's so warm, warmer than her and he releases a quiet growl when he finds her wet and when the noise reaches her ears, her inner muscles clench and she lets out a whimper of her own. His slippery fingers glide over her flesh and dimly she wonders how he can manage at that angle but then he's sliding a long finger inside her and she forgets what she was thinking about.

Everything coalesces to his hand on her mound and his finger stroking her leisurely inside, her thighs clenching around his hand to keep him inside when he teasingly withdraws. She whimpers when he uses a little more force to remove his hand from between her soft thighs and stares at him dazedly as he sucks her off of his finger, turning his body so that his other hand slides up to press against her and his fingers are back inside her again.

He presses a spot inside her that pulls a long moan from her mouth and his lips latch on to hers, swallowing the sound as he slips a send finger inside her to press harder against that spot. She's incoherent, lost to everything that's not his hand and that place and his mouth on hers. 

He slides his thumb over the engorged little bundle of nerves at the top of her and she can't breathe for a minute as his hand works her from the inside out. He takes his mouth from hers and presses his face to the side of hers, breathing harshly and gasping every time she moans.

She reaches blindly for him, grasping at the bulge in his slacks and squeezing and he gives a guttural shout so she keeps squeezing. Usually it's all for her but she's had enough and goddamn it, if she won't fuck him she'll at least give him relief from the blue balls he's probably had for months. And, jesus, does she want to fuck him more than she wants to breathe but she won't. She can't give him that part of herself without his love, without his desire for more than just her wet cunt in his hands.

So she squeezes his cock through his pants as he fingers her and they're both gasping desperately at each other, silently battling to make the other come first as if they know one will trigger the other but she falters, breaks first, and it's one perfect moment of bright bliss in an otherwise dark sea, her head is thrown back against the headrest and she's giving broken little shouts and her muscles are clamping around his hand. Her climax sets off his and she feels him jerk in her hands through his pants, a hoarse shout of his own ringing in her ear, too loud but she hasn't a fuck to give, all she wants is his pleasure as payment for hers. 

They begin to come down, hands still playing with each other but gently and their breathing is ragged, broken, aftershocks shooting from one to the other.

He does the unthinkable, at least to her. He kisses her temple gently, reverently nuzzling into her tousled hair. He's never done it before and she's too stupid from orgasm to react properly so she just lets him and tells herself she'll deal with the kernel of doubt lodged in her gut later in the privacy of her cold room without him and his warm hands and warm leather Cadillac seats soaked with her sweat and juices.

They release each other but he takes his time letting go, slipping his fingers free of her and cleaning them off with his tongue. It's not an obscene gesture but one colored with something that seems like love but it couldn't be, he can't love her, all he knows of her is these trysts in the dead of night by the cemetery or in the church parking lot or the edge of the woods.

He adjusts himself in his pants and she thinks how uncomfortable it must be to sit in your own semen like that and it makes her blush because she knows she has a much better place for him to put it next time. If there even is a next time for them, because something has shifted imperceptibly, but it's there, on the edges of her consciousness and it's making her heart beat and ache, what the hell is going on?

She pulls her dress down self-consciously and looks at her lap, the fogged windows, anywhere but at him for she knows if she makes eye contact, he'll see everything and then it will all be ruined.

Fate is a fickle bitch, though, because his fingers find her chin and pull her face towards his but she still won't look at him, choosing instead to memorize the dark paisley pattern of his tie and telling Fate to go fuck herself right now.

His fingers leave her chin and she feels his hand stroke the side of her face as he sighs, his breath ghosting across her lips. He leans in gently like she's a skittish doe and hovers near her mouth.

She has to choose now: to either pull away and make him take her home, or she can meet his mouth with hers and damn the consequences, damn the pain and the loss when he drops her off and speeds away. She can deny him in fear or take a piece of what she wants with everything she has and face the anguish tomorrow.

She closes the millimeter of distance between their lips and presses against him, full and pouty against thin and firm and he makes a noise of surprise before both his hands cup her face and tilt her so he can access her mouth fully. He's kissed her before, even just a few minutes ago, but this, fucking hell, _this_ is different. He's desperate and sucks her tongue into his mouth like he's starving for her and she tastes herself on him and it's simultaneously erotic and comforting, when did that happen?

It's al suddenly too much and she breaks away from his mouth with a cry of distress and the tears start flowing and they won't stop. He makes a pained sound of his own and pulls her into him, holding her, and she just sobs, doing exactly what she feared she would, letting her tears stain his expensive clothes. He murmurs nonsense to her and pets her and oh, god, it's everything she's wanted for _months_.

He shifts to start the car, resettling her against his side as he pulls out of the cemetery and back onto the main road, all the while she's snuffling and crying intermittently and she's thinking, _no, please, don't take me back,_ but she can't voice the words for all the sobbing.

She's drowsy from the orgasm and the crying and hardly notices time passing as they drive but soon enough she feels the car park and she can't do anything but whimper her distress, like a dog who knows it's about to be abandoned.

So she slumps in her seat, making no move to exit the car, hoping the blackness of it just swallows her whole. If he wants her out he'll have to fucking pull her out.

The passenger door opens and she sees his hand come into her line of sight. She stares at it, seeing the fingers that were inside of her just a short while ago, making her feel so good and where is that feeling now? His hand hovers for a moment before reaching down to unbuckle her seatbelt and grasping her hand closest to the door to pull her up out of the seat and the car and his life, if she was ever in it to begin with.

She keeps her eyes down even though she wants to rage at him, take out all her life's hurt on him for just doing that to her, breaking their normal unspoken rules and being _sweet_ with her like that and then promptly dropping her on her figurative ass to spend the rest of another cold night without what she wants and needs most in the world.

Her eyes are down, barely focusing and he's tugging her thin coat firmly around her and that movement snaps her out of whatever numb fog she's floating in and she raises her face up, ready to lay the fuck into him out of, what, self-preservation? 

She goes to take a shaky breath but it stops in her throat as she surveys the pink (salmon) house behind his shoulder and belatedly she feels the gravel of a different driveway under her feet. She brings her gaze to his face and goddamn him, he looks hopeful and scared and probably all the other emotions she's currently feeling, but what the hell does he have to feel scared by?

He's still got her hand but at some point the gesture changed from helping to holding and she looks down at them clasped in the night like that.

Fuck her, the sobs start all over again and she's so ashamed and confused yet relieved? How is she relieved? He crushes her to him with his other hand and their clasped ones are pressed between them, against their hearts and again he's murmuring nonsense that quickly turns into words that swear apologies and promises to return her to her father and he's so very sorry to have misunderstood and please don't cry, Belle, I can't bear it.

She pulls her hand from between them and wraps her arms tightly around him, pressing him into her as if trying to merge them together into one, trying to communicate through her tears that no, she wants to stay, she doesn't want to go back, please take her inside and somehow he understands.

His arms are full of her and he's promising things of a different nature now, fervent whispers to his girl, his beautiful, lonely angel and they're stumbling and somehow make it inside without falling on the gravel. She shivers from the warmth of his house, so unlike her father's, and he takes her coat before wrapping himself around her again. There's nothing sexual in the embrace, he just holds her and lets her cry out years of disappointment and melancholy and longing.

She finishes and is utterly drained and sagging against him in exhaustion. He picks her up, tiny thing that she is, and carries her upstairs to his bedroom and lays her down on the bed before removing her shoes and his own. He joins her then, pulling her towards him and she goes willingly, happily even in her sad, drained state. He holds her and she sleeps, deep and dreamless and peaceful.

 

\--

 

When she wakes, he's still curved about her protectively, his front to her back with one arm around her waist, and there's pale winter sunlight streaming in through slatted blinds over the window she can see. A clock tells her it's midmorning and she snuggles in closer, a spark of delight filling her when he responds in his sleep by grinding against her. Somehow in the night they ended up under the blanket yet still clothed and she wishes they were naked instead.

She feels him waking behind her, the press of his erection through his pants against her back, though whether it's from the morning or nearness to her she can't tell. She snorts a laugh when he murmurs an apology for being indecent like that and turns over in his arms to press a kiss to his sleep-warmed lips. He looks stunned when she pulls back and she has a moment of worry over doing the wrong thing before he presses his lips to hers and rolls her onto her back, his lower half coming to rest gently between her thighs, and he thrusts a little, pressing a bit harder when she moans. 

They kiss for a bit, warm and still a little sleepy, before the world starts to intrude with the sound of her phone ringing from downstairs in her coat. Her content mood flees, leaving cold reality and the reminder that this, all this, his warmth and tenderness and safety, is probably temporary and that she should go before he kicks her out.

He sees her face change before she realizes she's broadcasting her emotions and he scowls, and it's scary and sexy at the same time. She thinks of it as his "landlord" face. Sexy as it is, she really wants to get away while he looks like that. She's seen her father be on the receiving end of that look many a time and nothing good ever follows it. She looks away and starts to pull away but he stops her from moving. She looks at him warily and his scowl dissolves into sorrow as he's stroking her hair out of her face. 

He kisses her again, and says he's sorry and she wonders what kind of man he is to be so hard with the town but so contrite with her like this, like she's been forced to sleep next to him, stealing his warmth and his touches all night. She remembers the crying she did in his arms and her eyes prickle with more tears as she lifts a hand to his face this time, running her fingers over his cheeks, forehead, nose, lips before pulling him down again into a hard press of their mouths, less a kiss and more a demand to stop apologizing until he's done something to be sorry for. Like kick her out.

She sighs deeply and his eyes are drawn to her breasts, his gaze turning with admiration and no small amount of lust that he can't quite hide. He moves down a little and lays his head against her breasts, and she is surprised by how unsurprised she is to feel him there, like it's always been his spot, pillowed against her heartbeat.

She lays in the moment, absorbing it before she has to break it and deal with the world trying to intrude on them via phone. She pulls his head back up to hers and starts to tell him she can go if he wants, she doesn't want to be a burden to him, he must have many things to do with his day other than deal with her broken self, but he silences her with yet another kiss and she wonders if this is how it will always be with them. One silencing the others stupid worries with a kiss. He pulls back and shakes his head at her, a corner of his mouth quirks in a smile, and he says, _stay_. 

_Stay with me, stay here, with me, forever. Be safe always. I want you, I've always wanted you._

And, dear lord, it's too much, too much of everything she's wanted for months, years, right in front of her and she's smarter than this to just say yes blindly. Or is she? Is it smarter to say yes to him, to them, to all of it, to trust him to protect her and her heart, to trust herself to care for his, to take that giant leap? She knows there is so, so much to discuss, to align, to figure out but she gives in anyway, holds him to her and says it.

" _Yes_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold's POV

She calls him like she always does, his little librarian rings just around midnight, and he always answers. Before he even picks up he’s halfway out the door to the long black Cadillac, the demonic-looking thing and a relic of a bygone era when things were much more fucking simple for him, her, the town, everyone. He starts the car and the engine roars at him in satisfaction, like it’s sentient and knows what it’s going to devour soon.

He drives to Belle’s house—well, her father’s, if honesty is of concern, but really, he’s a wastrel and never going to win any ‘father of the year’ contests, that’s for fucking sure. He wonders if Moe will ever come out of his drunken stupors to see that his daughter lets the town monster do filthy things to her in the dead of night. Not that anything would come anywhere close to stopping Gold. Belle is _his._

At least, he wishes.

—

She opens the door and slinks down into the seat, and her coat and dress barely pass for clothing, let alone something acceptable for frigid winter nights. He wants to pull her into his lap and warm her up, stop her shivering but doesn’t relish the idea of being slapped in the face for his impertinence.

Sure, she’ll let him touch her, fondle her, make her scream and shake in his large hands, but he was certain actual affection would be soundly rejected. He wouldn’t even blame her.

So he does this instead. Picking her up, pretending not to see her red eyes, the faint tracks of tears on her face despite the resignation plainly written there that her father is a lost cause and her life is not within her control. He wants to scream and voice all his frustrations with her, with her life, with how much he could _fix_ if she would fucking let him, but he stays silent and looks at her from the corner of his eye as she stares out the window and tremors of cold run through her despite how high he’s turned up the heat and how he’s suffocating in his suit.

She never gives an indication of where she wants to go on these nights, so he makes the choice, picking places that are in town but on the periphery, where no one would likely find them. And if someone ran across the car and its inhabitants, well, he holds enough strings in this town that one tug would send that person scurrying in fear and they’d keep their goddamn trap shut.

He chooses the cemetery this time, in some sick way trying to communicate to her that life is short, time is fleeting and that he’s _right. fucking. here_. Just reach out and touch, he’s already hers as much as she’s his. She sits next to him and her hands run to the edge of her flimsy attire and tug the edges but he knows she’s not cold, not anymore. How could she be, he’d made it into a fucking sauna for her in his car. No, she tugs her dress because she's thinking about what she wants him to do and it’s her subconscious way of telling him because she's not brave enough to ask for him to pleasure her. She’s too embarrassed, to young, to innocent still despite the vile things she lets him do, monster that he is.

He wants to but can’t make the brave move of his own, the bold move needed to tell her this isn’t all he wants, that it’s not just sex that he wants from her. He wants to fuck her, jesus fucking christ of course he does, he wants to feel her clench around him as she comes, hear her moan and say his name and shiver in his arms and do the million little things women do when they’re being properly pleasured, properly _loved_ , but that’s not even the tip of what he wants. She’s never given any indication, though, that she wants more than the occasional hand job in the monster’s fancy car so he fucking keeps it to himself.

If she ever did, if he ever got even a hint that she wanted more, he’d never let her go. He’d have her over and over in his bed, office, shop, car, have her in his goddamn _life_ for the rest of the days given to them both. He’d treasure her and worship her body with his and keep her safe and free from the shit she went home to every day.

But right now those thoughts need to be pushed aside because she called him for a reason and he’s nothing if not obliging, especially to the lovely, sad little thing next to him. Broken, he can see it all over her, and he adopts his usual mentality of the pawn broker making a deal. He can give her a temporary reprieve and in return he gets the powerful rush of making a beautiful woman fall apart in the most glorious way nature intended and all from his clever hands.

He sighs, knowing the lie he’s telling himself will burn tomorrow like mist sizzling off in the morning sun, but he has to do this for now, for sanity, his own and hers because no one in this town, especially not this lovely, nubile woman, would ever want more from him than a deal.

He places his hand on her thigh without preamble and feels her jerk slightly in surprise, but she settles and parts her legs slightly for him and the invitation is too much to bear. His palm slide up the silky soft inside of her thighs and he hears her breath hitch a little and the pride and lust blooming in his chest make his heart ache.

His hand reaches its goal and she’s so soft and so warm and he can feel her vulva through the thin material of her cotton underwear and wonders how wet she is, because she’s definitely wet and needy and making the tiniest noises in her throat and squirming with his large hand cupped over her small mound. He presses his fingers briefly against her and slips under the material to feel her and fucking hell, she’s so wet and her folds slip against his fingers and he wants to press the seat back and devour her until the glass around them shatters from her screams.

He lets out a low growl and hears her whimper in return and he’s fucking lost, sliding one long digit inside her and crooking it, finding that spot he knows turns her bones to liquid and draws long moans from her throat. His hand gives a twinge in protest at the angle and he regrettably has to pull himself from between her thighs clenched around his hand. He can feel her body protest and the corner of his mouth crooks upward at her want. He sucks her off of his finger and watches her watching him do it and the lust glazing her eyes is driving him up the wall.

He shifts his body and cups her with his other hand and watches her eyes flutter closed as he slips a finger back inside her and presses that secret spot that makes her helpless. A long moan issues from her mouth and he can’t keep from kissing her, taking the moan into his own mouth and thrusting his tongue in time with the first, then second finger inside her.

He can tell she’s gone, lost herself to the way she feels as she pants and moans and her jacket slips away from covering her chest in the thin dress, her nipples are hard through the fabric and her breasts jiggle slightly to the rhythm of her breathing and his fucking her with his hand. They’re practically begging for his mouth and her arching her back like that isn’t helping but it’s not in the unspoken contract between them, so he refrains.

He slides his thumb up and across her clit, the little bundle of nerves swollen and as desirous of attention as her breasts, but this, this is in the contract and he’s happy to oblige.

Her body jerks from the sensations he’s causing and her breathing halts from the intensity. He pulls his mouth away and presses his face to hers, his breathing ragged and his heart rate spiking each time she moans.

And she does the unthinkable, at least to him, and grabs his cock through his pants and he gives a surprised shout as she squeezes him. His body demands he focus, pay attention to his cock being stroked but that’s not part of the plan, and so he lets her touch him, helpless to the way it feels but keeping his mind on her, on stroking and plucking and playing her like a fucking violin.

She’s close, so goddamn close and he can feel her muscles start to clench around his fingers and he has one moment of perfect sanity as she loses herself to the storm, head thrown back and crying out and he can feel her inner muscles flutter around his fingers and he follows her down, jerking into her small hand and shouting, most likely too loud in her ear. He keeps working his fingers inside her as her climax tapers off, determined to pull every shudder from inside her to satisfy the unspoken deal.

He slows his playing fingers and she slows hers, loosening her grip and her thumb gives him a small caress, just a few gentle little swipes up and down, as if she wants to calm him. She finishes with a small squeeze and something inside him breaks and he kisses her on the temple, nuzzling into her beautifully tousled hair and he’s shocked with himself. What happened to the carefully crafted, unspoken deal? 

He slips his fingers gently from inside her and brings them to his mouth, aware that she’s watching again and decides, in that moment, fuck it. Fuck it all. He wants her, all of her, but if her wetness on his fingers is the closest he can get he’ll make the fucking most of it. He reverently licks her off his fingers, closing his eyes and his brow furrows from the ache in his heart.

The product of his own orgasm has grown somewhat cold in his pants and he adjusts slightly, trying to relieve the discomfort of his own, far less appealing, wetness. He can think of a far better place to have put it but that will never fucking happen. He notices a faint blush on her cheeks and wonders what caused it.

She pulls her dress back down her legs as far as it will go and looks around in apparent distress, out the window, at her knees, anywhere but him. She makes a small noise and doesn't even seem to be aware that it happened and something in his mind clicks like a puzzle piece.

He gently grasps her chin and turns her face to his but she won’t meet his eyes, her gaze instead somewhere in the location of his throat and in that instant he just knows, he fucking just _knows_.

He leans in, giving her time to pull back if he’s wrong but god, don’t let him be wrong and let her meet him halfway and he’ll give her the world. Please let her be the brave one because leaning in this far has used what meager resources his has.

He feels her lips press against his faster than he’d even hoped and they’re full and warm and soft, and yes, he’s kissed her before, but this is so very different. He cups her beautiful face in his hands and adjusts the angle of their kiss, gently plundering her mouth with his tongue that still can taste her pleasure from licking it off his fingers. He’s falling so hard in the moment, the promise of getting what he’s longed for from this little beauty stirring something fierce and dark and protective inside him and he wants to die from it.

She breaks the kiss all too soon and he follows her, trying to prolong it but she’s making another distressed sound and there are tears flowing down her face and, oh god, did he do that? Was he wrong? Did he hurt her?

She’s getting hysterical in her sobs and he does the only thing he can think of and pulls her into his lap, however awkwardly it happens, and she's sliding her arms around his neck and sobbing into the collar of his wool coat, probably staining it from the salt, but who fucking cares, there are a million wool coats but only one her. It’s not his ideal way to have her in his arms but she’s seeking _comfort_ from _him_ and goddamn it, he’s going to provide it, and nothing short of hellfire will keep him from doing so.

He strokes her hair, murmuring to her, shushing her and saying things he half hopes she can’t hear over her crying because he’d be very embarrassed if she did. He was a besotted fool with the love of his life in his arms, sobbing like her world was ending and clinging to him as if he was the only one who could stop it from happening. He was a sick man for relishing that she sought his arms in her sorrow.

He wants to bring her home, to his home, not that stupid excuse for a home she’s forced to share with her ridiculous and likely cruel father. He shuffles her again so she’s sitting next to him and leaning against his shoulder and somehow manages to get her seatbelt on and the car pulled back out onto the road and she gives another heartbreaking sob and he presses the gas a little harder.

He can tell she drowses a little as they drive through the inky blackness of night and is loathe to wake her when they arrive at his silly pink mansion. He gets out and moves to her side of the car, opening the door and reaching to unbuckle her and she just stares ahead, unseeing and looking for the world like a woman on the edge of her execution.

He grasps her hand closest to the door and helps her up and she doesn’t look at him, doesn’t say anything but her body grows tense, preparing for, what, a fight? He sees a shiver race up her body and tugs the stupid coat she’s wearing tighter around her and she whips her head up to glare at him, fire and smoke fogging her gaze as she opens her mouth to probably yell at him for pushing his advantage, for taking her here, to his house against her will. He tenses in turn, awaiting a slap or a kick to the groin or for her to start shouting but she does none of those things.

Her gaze is on the large house behind them and its then that he notices he’s still gripping her hand and he looks at them connected like that and, god, he’s never longed for her more than in that moment, that tiny physical connection more intimate to him than having his fingers buried inside her.

He sees that she sees their hands and she’s bursting into sobs all over again and it’s all he can do to pull her to him, crushing their clasped hands between them, over their hearts, as his other arm wraps around her waist and he’s apologizing, feeling wretched that he pushed her too hard and scared her and is probably making it worse by holding her but if he doesn't do it now, he’ll never get another chance. He’s babbling about bringing her back to her father’s, if only she’ll stop crying, for he can’t bear her heartbreak and to know he caused it.

She pulls her hand out of his from between them, and slides her arms around his back, tighter than he thought possible for such a tiny woman and she’s pressing her face into his chest and he reads her message loud and clear. He presses kisses to her hair, speaking nonsense again to his sweet girl, his lonely little angel and he guides her inside, releasing her long enough to take of their coats and hang them up, before his arms are full of her again and he holds her body against his fully for the first time. He lets her cry, lets her have the release that can only come from a good, hard cry and he holds her, anchors her so she can get it out.

Her sobs taper off and she collapses against him, exhaustion apparent in every limb and he scoops her up and brings her to the master bedroom, his bedroom upstairs and lays her down gently on the bedspread, watching her watching him through half-lidded, sleepy eyes as he removes her shoes and then his own before joining her.

He pulls her into himself and she gives a small moan of contentment as he gently strokes her cheek, lulling her into sleep. He resettles himself, careful not to wake her, and curls protectively around her and falls into his own slumber.

—

A warm, curvy body is pressed to his as he comes back to reality in the morning, and her delightfully rounded ass wiggles slightly against his morning-hard cock and he presses into it, into the cleft of her, gripping her hip before coming fully to his senses and apologizing for his lewd behavior and he's rewarded with a feminine snort of amusement and it sets his heart to flying. He’s never heard her truly laugh before and she was giggling at him and his stupid apology for his morning wood.

She turns and presses a kiss to his lips, catching him completely by delighted surprised, but her face is uncertain when she pulls back. No, oh no, he can’t have that, she needs to know exactly how much he liked it so he rolls her onto her back and settles his pelvis between her thighs, kissing her soundly on the mouth and she whimpers when he presses his cock into the soft apex of her thighs and louder still when he presses harder.

They kiss and nuzzle and exist in a warm bubble until a shrill ringing from downstairs pops it and brings them crashing back to earth in unpleasant awareness. He feels her stiffen in his arms and sees the worry and anxiety cross her face and he scowls in turn, anger at the intrusion plain on his face but she mistakes him. She sees him as he saw her and makes to move away and he could fucking kick himself for scowling at her like she’s another tenant late on the rent and not the soft, sweet woman of his life warm in his arms.

He stops her from moving, like hell he’s going to let her get away after he just _found_ her. His face is contrite as he strokes her hair and kisses her, saying how sorry he is to have scared her and he feels her slender fingers ghost along his face before her surprisingly strong grip pulls him down into a searingly tender kiss that tells him in no uncertain terms to shut the fuck up. Oh, he is truly lost to anything but her. The town will always have his disdain and scorn but she’ll never have anything but love and care and adoration from him.

His eyes are drawn to her breasts when she releases his lips and breathes deeply and he’s fascinated by the rise and fall of her chest. He places his head there, above her heartbeat and just listens to proof of her life as it beats under his ear and feels like his place in the universe is here, cradled against her breasts, her arms around his head, her hands stroking his hair.

All too soon she pulls him back up and her face is shuttered as she starts speaking some fucking nonsense about how she can go if he wants, he’s the most important man in town and so very busy and it’s his turn to shut her the hell up with his mouth and he wonders if he’ll get to spend the rest of his life kissing her when she says something stupid.

When he pulls back, he smiles at her, putting everything he wants on display for her to see if she only looks and he shakes his head in fondness before he says, _stay_.

_Stay with me, stay here, with me, forever. Be safe always. I want you, I've always wanted you._

He waits on tenterhooks for her to respond, his heart in his throat and he would swear to any god that would listen that if she says no, and pulls away, it would be the end of him, he would break and bleed from loss. But if he’s blessed in some small way and she says yes, christ, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her.

He can hear her heartbeat and his own is rushing in his ears as he waits for the span of a breath before she answers him, a blinding smile on her face. 

“ _Yes_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I don't even know. Someone be the beta that stops me from writing shit like this :P


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter.

_1 year later_

He said stay and she said yes and it's been them ever since. Sure, things get difficult and the town doesn't help with their sanctimonious judgements, and her father was a real prick to handle, but it's them now and it always will be until one of them leaves the earthly plane.

They're cracked, broken and his core is black while hers is white, pure and innocent, but their colors spill out through the cracks and mingle into grey and it heals the cracks in their souls.

Not the grey of sadness, or a lost, seething storm, no. The beautiful, shining grey of silver, of light glinting off steel forged in fires of desire and pain and coming out on the other side singed but whole and pure and they revel in it.

He’d pulled her astride him when she’d said yes that day, giving her the control over their first full time together, because she needed to feel the reins in her hands and know if she gave the slightest tug, he’d obey.

She was never shy in his Caddy, the darkness and clothing prevented any real breach, any serious intimacy, but there, in his bed, she peeled her clothing off with a fragile confidence that evaporated as soon as she was fully nude.

He gloried in her, her flesh pale and smooth and pulled her arms away when she tried to hide herself, making a little cooing sound in his throat to soothe her nerves. He touched everywhere he could reach, and, oh, could he reach so much with her on top of him like that.

He watched his hands stroke and squeeze her body, the nubile flesh yielding under his long, tanned fingers, curling around her hips and lifting her as she lined them up and sank down on him and he saw the fucking universe behind his eyes at the feel of her.

She was wet and tight and it was obscene and perfect and he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting up, seeking as much of her as he could get around him. He wanted to pull her down, take her mouth with his tongue to mimic his cock inside her, but he gave her pleasure first.

She’d given a little squeak of surprise at feeling him press her hips down, and it dissolved into a long, keening moan as he slid all the way in and, fucking hell, he was so thick and it filled her to bursting, and she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

They fucked each other, loved each other, collapsed in a sweaty heap and curled up like the mates they’d become when he asked and she answered, him curving protectively around her again and pulling her into him, burying his nose in her hair and inhaling her, filling his lungs and brain and heart with her. She’d whimpered contentedly and he’d growled his satisfaction with her, nipping her shoulder and laving the little bite with his tongue in apology.

An interesting way to begin the rest of their lives.

 

  
Her father succumbs to his alcoholism and dies in hospital when his liver gives out and while Belle grieves, Gold knows she mourns for the father she never got to have rather than the one who is dead. He pays for the funeral and a better headstone than that fucker ever deserved and they lay his miserable bones to rest next to Belle’s mother in the Storybrooke cemetery and he knows they’ll never drive back there for a midnight tryst again.

No matter, she’s in his bed and life permanently now and they’ll only ever sneak out at night for a dirty little thrill.

When she’s hurting, when new cracks form from life and became too much and she collapses, he catches her, every time, and keeps her heart as the most prized of his treasures. And when he confesses his sins to her over time, his cruelty to the townspeople, his feud with the mayor Regina, how he used to fuck the mayor's mother and was almost Regina's father once upon a time, she accepts them into herself and opens her heart and body for his comfort, loving him so fiercely after these confessions that he feels she’s sucked his soul from his body but nestles it inside her, safe and sound.

 

  
The day comes when he finds her in a heap on their bathroom floor hovering over the toilet and her face is green and she looks miserable but happy? He doesn’t know how to handle that mixed bag and she throws up in front of him from nerves and nausea, but he’s right here, holding her hair back, a suspicion tickling the back of his mind as he helps her up to rinse her mouth with water from the master bathroom sink.

She’s groaning and holding a small pink and white stick out to him and one word on the tiny LCD screen jump out at him.

_Pregnant_

He drops it with a happy shout and her beautiful, miserable, sick little face meets his and there’s fear in her eyes because she misinterpreted his shout. She throws up again, this time in the sink.

He picks up the stick and wants to pick her up and squeeze her like the knowledge is joyfully squeezing his heart but his girl is currently not in the mood to be cuddled, that’s for certain. So he kisses her, tells her he loves her and places his hand on her lower abdomen as he promises to be back with tea.

He rummages in a cupboard for mint tea, giving a triumphant exclamation when he finds some and makes her a pot. She’s sitting on the edge of the tub when he comes back, her head practically between her knees.

He sets the tray down on the sink’s counter and pours her a cup, handing it to her and she inhales the steam and gives a small moan of relief. He’s made the right choice.

He gets on his knees in front of her and she stares at him over the rim of the cup like she’s waiting for her world to come crashing down and he, the deal maker, can’t find the right words to say for once, so he does the only thing he knows will send a clear message on how he feels about this news.

He moves forward and nearly knocks the cup out of her hands but he doesn’t care, she’s got something of his and he wants to show her exactly what that means.

He slides his arms around her middle and presses his face to her stomach, hearing it gurgle in upset, their little one making its presence known even at it’s minuscule size. He pulls her as close as he can without knocking her off the tub ledge and burrows his head against her, kissing just below her navel.

The message must be received, for he hears a choked sound come from her and the clink of the cup and saucer as she sets them down on the tub before her arms are curving around his shoulders, her hands sliding down his back as she bends and her breasts are resting on his head and his face is pressed to the holiest, most perfect thing he’s ever imagined.

Belle was carrying their child. Their _child_. _Their_ child.

The fucked up, broken, staggering beginning led to this, this…miracle. Part of him, part of her, joined forever. He gets to see her grow round and full with the literal representation of their love, to watch their child grow before it meets the world and then every day after it arrives.

She’s crying, soaking the back of his shirt and sobbing so hard she’s almost dislodging him. He pulls back enough to sit up and slide his arms around her, pulling her close, carefully, like she’s fragile as porcelain, or spun glass and as far as he’s concerned, she is. She’s the mother of his child, nothing is more precious than that right now.

He hopes they have a girl.

Gold holds Belle and she’s vacillating between sobbing and laughing and his heart is broken in a million ecstatic pieces, each one for mother and child, but his mind starts making plans.

They’ll leave Storybrooke, leave that toxic place and leave bad memories in the graves where they belong and move south, maybe to New York or possibly Boston and he’ll make sure his child never wants for anything. He’s got more money than he knows what to do with and he’ll press his connections in major cities and Belle will work at a large library and he’ll continue his antique dealings, because nothing in New York is truly new and Boston is an old seat of early America, so they all like their antiques.

But for now, for this moment, he is holding his girl, both his girls, hopefully, and their two hearts beat close to one another and he wonders if their child has a heartbeat yet and what it will sound like and he feels an excited jolt that he’ll get to know that sound soon.

There’s so much to be done, so much he doesn’t know but he realizes with sudden, perfect clarity that he’s in love with the town’s librarian and vows before her first trimester is up he’ll know everything there is to know about this process so that when the time comes for labor, when beautiful new cracks form and she needs him, he can catch her, catch their child and keep both their hearts safe for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


End file.
